


Undertale: a Novelisation

by tooloudamind



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adaptation, Flavor Text Narrator Chara (Undertale), Gen, Gender-Neutral Chara (Undertale), Gender-Neutral Frisk (Undertale), My First Undertale Fanfic, My First Work in This Fandom, Narrator Chara (Undertale), No Presence of Player, Novelization, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Undertale Neutral Route, Undertale Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-18 00:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18974983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooloudamind/pseuds/tooloudamind
Summary: The tale of a cursed prison, the clutches of which no being was ever supposed to be able to escape.The tale of how the course of history was altered by one human, who was determined enough to try.Will they be the harbinger of salvation, or destruction?





	1. PROLOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as a project to combat my writer's block, and since I relish the challenge of finding the most perfect words to put a situation onto ink and paper (or, words on a screen, as the case may be.) Ideally, I would like to present something that can possibly be read by someone with no interest in or prerequisite knowledge of Undertale the video game whatsoever; for those who want something a little more than the summary, although nothing can replace actually playing the game. I suspect this has probably been done several times before, with varying levels of success. However, do bear with me, for hopefully I have something new to offer, as well, and while I would like to complete this project, I do not want to be shouting into the void.  
> Hope you enjoy, and as a first-time writer at AO3, I look forward to your engagement! Without further ado, here's presenting~

Long ago, two races ruled over the Earth; Humans, and Monsters.

The Monsters were a diverse species; compared to the uniform builds of the humans, they were creatures of versatile shape and size, the designs of their various forms often inspired by or evolved from those of the other fauna that with them shared the surface of the Earth. They were beings whose bodies were formed of pure magic; and thus, they could channel the very energies of the cosmos through their souls as effortlessly as though they were extensions of their own body.

In contrast, the practice of these arcane arts was not something that came so naturally to the humans; it took entire lifetimes of disciplined study for them to be able to draw even the least significant amount of mana from their surroundings.

And thus, among the humans, reverential tales abounded of the tremendous power that the monsters held; and while they were discreet when it came to the exhibition of the true extent of their fabled skills, the humans yet looked upon the monsters with a begrudging respect.

But this harmony was not to last. The passing ages saw this peaceful co-existence deteriorate into shadowy distortions of its past self. Fuelled by the rabid whispers of the unthinkable deeds that the monsters were alleged of indulging in behind closed doors, of the ulterior motives that they were accused of possessing, and of the unfathomable power that the monsters might any day choose to unleash, that which was once respect transformed into an overwhelming fear that crept upon the humans’ hearts and captured them in a vice-like clutch. As time worked its way upon their withering spirits, this fear metamorphosed into anger, an overwhelming rage that drove the humans to lead a brutal assault against the monsters. And so, the two races declared war upon each other.

The battle was long and weary. Though the monsters were of superior clout, the unyielding spirit of the humans could not be underestimated, and the humans managed to overpower the monsters, emerging victorious, if only by the skin of their teeth. Those with whom the humans had once shared the Surface were deemed unworthy of even partaking in the blessing that was the light of the Sun. They were banished beneath the Earth’s surface, and the humans sealed them underground with a magic spell. And thus, the monsters were imprisoned for all of the conceivable future, by the most fundamental ability of their own nature.

Many years later...

It is the year 201X. So many years have passed since the events of that fateful war that those memories which were once branded with fire onto the humans’ minds have become but one of many pages in the dusty tomes of history, and their once implacable terror of the monsters has become the stuff of dubious legend. Even the knowledge of the arcane arts, once protected and revered by the humans with zealous fervour, have been scattered like dust to the winds of time, as the passing centuries saw these very humans stray further and further from the path of belief.

And yet, the barrier they once erected with their collective might still stands strong.

A mountain named Ebott dominates the skies of a nondescript town; it casts an ominous shadow over the otherwise sleepy settlement. Although the mountain itself looks harmless enough, save its overbearing proximity, nobody knows not what impending evils its summit hide. Nobody has ever plucked up the courage to observe Mt Ebott from any closer than the relative safety of their own homes. For Ebott is enveloped by the murky clouds of the portent of imminent doom. And legends say that those who climb the mountain never return.

And yet, one day, these otherwise forsaken slopes saw, of all people, a child daring to scale its forbidden trails.

We know not what they were looking for, what went on in their heart.

Seeking a spot of respite after hours of relentless effort, the child found refuge in a mysterious cave.

As they ventured inside, their attention was captured by the sight of a gaping pit that split the earth, its jaws poised to swallow whoever was foolish enough to tread any closer.

Led forward by the puppet strings of destiny like a man in a dream, they drew nearer for a closer look, unheedful of where their feet alighted...

A vine caught around their foot, and made them trip.

And they fell, headlong, lost to the clutches of this ghastly gorge, from which no being has ever before escaped.

 

 

But what if, against all odds, they are determined enough to try?

.

.

.

_No...you’re dying..._

_We’re dying..._

_...stop hurting us! please..._

_Asriel! If not now, then never!_

_Their future rests in our hands!_

_Asriel...you can’t back out now!_

_They’re all counting on us!_

_Asriel...please..._

_Right here, right now..._

_IT’S KILL OR BE KILLED!_

.

.

.

...our plan...

it had failed, had it not?

then why...

...if he is gone...

am

I

still

awake?

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my interpretation of the game's story and while I will mostly stay true to the spirit of the original, I may take some artistic liberties in how the story is narrated, in making additions and possibly expanding the lore- however. Do not be too alarmed. As I am pretty much pantsing it at the moment, to be honest, none of these things may happen. I cannot tell until I write the words, of which there are only nebulous outlines in my head. I only request that you bear patiently with me.  
> While I will be focusing on a True Pacifist Run, I will endeavour to present as organic a run as possible, as though a real child fell into the Underground for the very first time. I would like to, somehow, incorporate at least allusions to the possibility of the Genocide Run, although until I find a way to work it in without shoehorning it and making an absolute and complete mess, I will stave off it for now.  
> Again, I look forward to your engagement!


	2. FALLEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One of  
> Part ONE: THE CARETAKER OF THE RUINS  
> In which the fallen child gathers their strength.

The first thing you become aware of, as you come to, are all the various aches and pains that are blossoming in your limbs, despite the presence of what seems like the unfamiliarly soft bed that you’re curled up on. This bed is rather an odd one, though, yielding far too easily to even the most subtle shifts of the weight of your body. The second thing you become aware of is of how eerily quiet it is, the air blanketed in such a dense hush that it seems to physically press down upon you. Your arms and legs dangle like deadweight, too heavy to even lift; consumed by such an overpowering exhaustion that you have no strength left to do anything but lie, unmoving, too feeble to stir an inch but acutely aware of each and every one of the millions of motes of dust that are suspended in the air, the gloom that weighs upon the darkness. After what seems like the passage of an endless number of hours, you finally gather into your limbs enough strength to begin to rouse themselves into the slightest of movements. Something delicate brushes against your cheek, and a sweet fragrance rises to your nostrils. You can sense a faint golden glow, shimmering through your closed eyelids. It is this, finally, that induces you to crack open your eyelids just the slightest bit.

You squint as the light glints directly in your eyes; but as your eyes acclimatise to your surroundings, you realise that this is not the blistering heat and the harsh blaze of the Sun that you’re so used to, but rather a feeble imitation. As your eyes flutter gently open, you notice, right in front of your nose, the sunlight sparkling on a patch of golden flowers. In fact, you realise, your whole body seems to be cushioned by an entire bed of these flowers; clustered so thickly, in fact, that you’re almost buried among them, and their heady scent threatens to overwhelm all of your senses. Your body is bathed in a cosy warmth, and you hungrily drink it all in, savouring the feeling of this sunshine playing upon your cheeks, your hands, your hair.

Now feeling a slight vitality surge through your limbs, you uncurl, and pull yourself up to your knees; your movements as fragile as you feel, as though at any moment, you could splinter into a million pieces. But for all your caution, you discern, to your relief, that nothing seems to be broken. Your head spins, though, as you try to orient yourself; an ungainly sway still persists in your joints. You stretch as wide as you can reach, trying to shake the leaden feeling from your arms. For the first time, your gaze falls on what lies beyond the refuge of this circle of light, and you notice that the rest of your surroundings are shrouded in shadow, only seeming to fade into an ever deepening darkness.

Reflex makes your eyes turn upward, searching for the source of this light, and you spot what seems to be a pinprick of light, far above you, from which this beam of light seems to descend. Which is when a series of images flash in quick succession before your eyes, and your heart begins to beat painfully hard and fast.

Your eyes, boring into a bottomless blackness, your heart as empty as the insatiable hunger of this yawning abyss.

Your feet, lingering careless at the precipice, even as the sand at the edge crumbles into what could only be the depths of oblivion.

The sudden grip of an unfamiliar panic as you trip.

The helpless flailing of your limbs as you fall.

And then, a void.

Realisation slams into you with all the force of a train wreck, and you stagger under the onslaught. You realise your lungs are clawing at the air around you as though they can’t get enough; your breaths have become shallow and rapid. As much as you try to hold them back, your thoughts can’t help but turn to the murky fog of legend and myth that’s always surrounded the vicinity of Mount Ebott. It does not matter how you ever came to know, whether it was from the trivial understandings gleaned from the harried murmur of the grown-ups’ hushed conversations, or the various outlandish tales of inexplicable occurrences that were often exchanged, in awed whispers, among the other kids, at odd hours. It has trickled, over the years, into the depths of your consciousness, till it feels like you’ve known for as long as you remember. The nebulous clouds of mixed-up rumour and hearsay swirl in your head as assorted retellings of those fables come to you in bits and pieces from all the cobwebbed corners of your mind. The mythical race that once shared the surface of the Earth with the humans; the Monsters. The bloody war that broke out between the two races; the monsters, banished underground by the victorious humans. Some say it is a mere fairy tale, some say they still survive; some say that perhaps they even reside under this very mountain. However it goes, out of all the indistinct outlines of distorted details and wild guesses that contend in your head, the crux of it all clarifies from the chaos.

_Those who climb the mountain never return._

A sudden rush of adrenaline propels you to your feet, the aches that preyed upon your arms and legs falling to the wayside. You trample wildly through the flowers until your feet leave the circle of light of their own accord, against all reason screaming at you not to, and you stumble blindly forward until you crash into a wall. Your hands scrape at hard edges and a steep incline, the grit of rocks tearing at your already raw and reddened skin. You search for a handhold, only for your hand to slip futilely away. You scramble through your pockets for a grappling hook, rope, anything that could help you get out of here, but your hands come away empty. Your arms sag to your sides as you realise that there’s no hope. Somewhere in the more rational recesses of your mind, you knew there was nothing you could do, nothing of use you had with you, but for a moment, you didn’t want to believe it. You wanted to escape the utter futility of your reality. Try as you might to divert your attention, your thoughts once again turn to the legends of the monsters that may here abound. You’ve already conjured up vivid images of these beings in your mind’s eye, fuelled by all the fairy tales and the scary stories you’ve ever heard; strange and unnerving creatures, with teeth that can slice skin and claws that can kill. You look at your hands, unmistakeably, undeniably human. You may never have borne any ill-will towards these unknown beings, but will that matter, down here? Will the monsters not thirst for blood? Will they not crave vengeance? And, if so, will not the burden of the sins of the entire human race fall upon your shoulders anyway?

The ominous weight of the air becomes even more unbearable, seeming to almost bow down on your spine. Your palms grow slick with sweat, your knees begin to knock together so badly it takes all of your will to prevent them from giving way. The image of a length of rope tied down somewhere along the craggy paths of the mountain, flapping desolately in the wind, emblazons itself in your mind’s eye. That was the closest thing you had to an aid in your conquest of the mountain; as helpless as you were, there was only so much you could scrounge up in your situation. Cuts and bruises pepper your skin, their sting not quite faded yet, as a testament to the hardships that you’d endured; with only a slight relief provided by the bandages that you’d bound some of the more bothersome injuries with. You don’t know how you even managed to haul yourself up the mountain, or why you’d done it. You don’t know what you’d been thinking as you’d stood, deliberating, at the mouth of that pit.

As the scattered fragments of coherent thought crawl haltingly back to you, you realise you’re just amazed that you’re even alive. As you trudge in retreat to the safety of the flowers, you conjecture that they must have broken your fall.

You’re not sure whether you’re thankful for that or not.

Perhaps, even as you pushed yourself relentlessly upward and onward, even as you ignored the sweat breaking out on your brow and the protests of your abused muscles, striving towards an end even you could not see, in the deepest depths of your consciousness, you must’ve known what you were heading for; but somehow, that knowledge was always conveniently pushed to the back of your head, tucked away in the inmost recesses of your mind. But one false step, and the world has tumbled away from your grasp, the earth has crumbled from beneath your feet. You’ve become trapped within this oppressive darkness, separated farther than you can ever imagine from light and warmth and wind, what precious little was dear to you back on the surface; and the truth of your reality sinks in, in ever harsher detail. A primal fear, as fundamental as the bones that give your body form, gnaws agonisingly at your heart. However bad it may have been back there, you feel like anywhere would be better than here, this airless cavern where no light could ever reach, where the desolation that consumes this atmosphere threatens to crush you under the burden of its melancholy.

Before you, the darkness swells, pregnant with an unfathomable measure of untapped possibility. It seems to beckon to you, enticing you into its embrace with a call as irresistible as the sirens of yore. The silence envelopes you in such a closeted clasp that you feel the hairs on the back of your neck tingle with a newfound heightened sensitivity. The very motes of dust that linger in the impenetrable hush seem to be whispering secrets among themselves. And your head snaps around as a chorus of voices reach your ears; or rather, the ghosts of these voices, a jumble of the high-pitched tones of children, all raised in a piteous cry for help. But nobody is around; and the memory of what you heard is already diminishing, becoming such a distant echo of itself you wonder if it was just your imagination playing tricks on you. But one of the voices does not quite seem to die away, and you feel like its whisper is seeping into each and every nook and cranny of your mind, intertwining so closely with the echo of your own consciousness you can’t even tell which is which; you can hear this whisper resound within your soul, so faint that you still can’t tell whether it’s all only in your head.

Somehow, a certain courage begins to dawn upon you. As though, perhaps, there have been others, too, who have fallen down once before. As if their spirits linger by your side, taking up the mantle of your guardian angels. You reflect.

As much as your heart loathes leaving the refuge of the light and the flowers, you realise that there’s nothing to be done but pick yourself up and go on. As you always have.

You bend down and scrounge through the undergrowth. Your hand chances upon the familiar feel of worn-down leather. Your grasp closes around it, pulls it up. It’s the backpack you’d strung on your shoulders, now hanging limply in your hand. You remember. It’d contained the last of your supplies. It’s empty now. But you’re not one to let go of things that easily. You’ll hang on to it. It might come in useful sometime. You break off a fair-sized branch, stripping it of its leaves. You brandish the stick in mock readiness, trying to ignore the blaring truth of the futility of your supposed means of defence. _Something is better than nothing,_ you tell yourself as sternly as you can, as you hold on to the stick as though your very sanity depended on it.

As you look forward, your eyes detect the faintest hint of light, coming in from what seems to be a door far off to the side. It occurs to you that you may have found some kind of exit, and the flame of hope in your heart dares to rekindle itself.

Once again, you begin to make your way through the flowers, each step blunted by the edges of caution. And with each step, you are gripped by an overpowering sense of déjà vu, as though all at once, you’re reliving the memory of a myriad of forgotten souls, each uncertain step mirrored across time and space, as though once before countless others have thusly waded through these flowers, venturing with guarded steps towards the strangely alluring darkness.

The darkness draws you in, enfolds itself around you. You approach the wall, again, and extend a hand to the comforting presence of its steadfast solidity. Aided by your guiding hand, and the diffuse sunlight sprinkled in the air, you shuffle along in the darkness, until, finally, your hand stumbles upon the wall’s end, and you can see the edge of a doorway where your fingers have landed, outlined in a dim glow. Your fingers brush against what might be the ridges of a tall pillar, carved finely out of stone; in fact, you can make out the structure of what seem to be two pillars, which stand at either side of this passageway. You don’t know whether you’re relieved or not that there is a longer path to continue upon. But continue you must, and continue you will.

You’re filled with determination.

.

.

.

I am

but the tattered remains of a consciousness

that hammers without fists

on the unending expanse of this nothingness;

I am

but a voice that screams

unheard

into this void.

I am

tethered to no worldly anchor;

there are no eyes to be awoken by soothing light, no ears to be stirred by rousing melody,

no senses to revel in the feel of a world that throbs with life beneath my touch;

I

simply

am.

All I know

is the feel of being

forever hopelessly adrift

in this bottomless emptiness;

all I know

is the feel of a SOUL

that is not mine,

but

resonates

with an overflowing DETERMINATION,

resonates

like mine once did;

every tendril of my mind

bound

to every tendril of this SOUL.

Entangled

so deeply

my thoughts are theirs

and theirs are mine.

Coiled

so closely

I cannot make out

where they end

and

where I begin.

This SOUL is not mine,

but I am part of this SOUL;

inexplicably,

inextricably,

my mind,

my spirit,

perhaps, even my destiny,

is linked to the determination

that beats strongly in this SOUL.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I know that this is merely yet another unoriginal take on a concept that has been done many times before.  
> My apologies.  
> However, I must ask my readers to give me a chance.  
> This is mainly a project to introduce my friends to Undertale, an exercise to keep my writing alive, a labour of love;  
> but I would very much like others to join in on the ride as well.  
> Leave a comment? :)  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> If it interests you to know, I have an Undertale AU story in the works as well; while it may not be the most original concept, I hope to bring something new to the playing field in the way I tell the story. As does any author. Thank you!


	3. YOUR BEST FRIEND

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two  
> of Part ONE: THE CARETAKER OF THE RUINS  
> In which the fallen child finds that they are not alone.

_"Hee hee hee..._

_I've been waiting for you to get here._

_How long has it been...? How many years...?_

_...It doesn't matter._

_I KNEW you would come back._

_..._

_So._

_What do you say?_

_Won't you play with me again?"_

 

.

.

.

 

You step into another chamber that’s been carved out of the overhanging rock. Its structure is almost identical to that of the room you just left behind, except that here, you can vaguely make out the outline of another doorway right across the room, instead of off to the side as it was in the previous room. In the very centre of the ground, a lone golden flower peeks out of the grassy undergrowth; it seems to be just like the ones in the other room, but somehow, its petals stand out as a more garish yellow than that of the others. The rough-hewn ceiling rears dauntingly above you, but sunlight streams thinly from a chink in it, and the flower is bathed in a spotlight of palely shimmering gold. Somehow, despite the complete lack of wind here, the flower seems to be dancing on its stem, bopping along to its own beat. Tentatively, you take another step forward.

And the flower springs to life.

You start back, a sharp cry escaping your lips. The white-hued centre of the flower seems to have grown a face, the delicate skin peeling back as easily as tissue paper to reveal beady black eyes blinking back at you, and petite teeth bared in a bright friendly grin. A subtle whisper of air whooshes in and out of its wispy petals, suffusing the flower with an unmistakeable sentience. You press your palm to your chest; your heart is still pounding against your ribs for all its worth.

"Howdy!" A high-pitched voice rings out in a delighted singsong across the otherwise barren cavern, almost instantly banishing the silence that seemed to have ensnared the surroundings in its suffocating clutches. "I'm  _Flowey_! Flowey the  _Flower_!" 

You ascertain that the voice is indeed coming from the flower, and this very realisation makes you feel like your comprehension has been thrown into whiplash by this violation of everything you've ever known to be true. The trees might as well flourish among the clouds, the stars might as well be scattered amidst the mud. The very ground is threatening to give out from under your feet. And you wonder if this is only a presentiment of what the rest of the day will be like.

The flower sounds strangely young, almost as though it could be just a little boy, about your age, bursting with excitement to make a new friend; although, you note, that could be no farther than the kind of person you've always been. Years of having to weather the world on your own, with all the hostility it ever had to offer, having nothing to hold on to but yourself, have taught you to pick yourself up from the dust, no matter how many times you've been knocked down. It has trained you to conceal the play of your true emotions on your face and soldier on no matter what, rendered your countenance perpetually stoic. And this is what has kept you going, all these years. Although, you suspect, even if you're not _dead_ by the end of the day, your prized poker face might not survive what promises to be a long and unforgiving exercise in chipping away at what had been painstakingly cultivated over several unyielding years.

The flower bends forward on his stem, eyes narrowing as it appears to squint. Pleasant surprise and eager curiosity flit across its face in a flurry of fluidly morphing expressions, and each rearrangement of its features is so exaggerated, so alight with animation, that it strikes you that you have never seen a flower this  _alive,_ much less a talking flower, and all you can do is stare, transfixed by this unprecedented sight. Your jaw can't help but drop, and you wonder if you’re just in a particularly odd dream.

"You're new to the Underground, aren'tcha?" Flowey nods helpfully at you; but you feel like somewhere in his voice, you can hear a smack of delicious relish. " _Golly_ _!_ " he exclaims. "You must be  _so_  confused. Someone oughta teach you how things work around here!" He purses his lips, apparently lost in deep meditation for a moment before he opens his eyes, and sighs as though the burden of the very world weighed on his shoulders. "...I guess little old me will have to do."

He promptly perks up, though, his enthusiasm irrepressible.

"Ready?" he cries. "Here we go!"

Suddenly, within you, you can feel a strange and strong resonance; as though the world is calling out to the deepest, most primal part of your being, with all the allure it can muster, and that part of you is responding in kind. You look down at where you can feel a solid, heavy warmth burgeon, thumping in time with every rise and fall of your chest. Where your heart would be, you can see a faint red shimmer that seems to emanate from within, radiating right through your T-shirt. You lift your collar and peer down at your skin; the red shines more intensely here, forming the vague outline of a heart.

Once again, echoes of the past resound in your ears, high-pitched voices raised in excitement as they whispered of the magic that once lingered about the earth like an ever-pervasive presence in the lives of every surface-dweller, the magic that vanished underground along with the monsters; and it occurs to you that you've indeed stumbled right into the midst of what was hitherto only the stuff of legend.

"See that heart?" Flowey tips his head toward you, indicating the strange glow coming from your chest. "That is your SOUL, the very culmination of your being!" He pipes on in his nasally little voice. "Your SOUL starts out weak, but can grow strong if you gain a lot of LV!" His simper broadens. "What's LV stand for? Why, LOVE, of course!" His stem shakes with barely suppressed gasps of giggles. He leans in closer towards you, his raspy voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You want some LOVE, don'tcha?" Flowey winks at you. "Don't worry! I'll share some with you!" He titters again like a little child getting a new toy.

His excitement is infectious. For the first time in what seems like years, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. A knot in your stomach you didn't even realise you had is loosening. The frantic hitch that had overtaken your breath is dissolving. Something about Flowey puts you at ease in a way that you haven't felt in a long time. Perhaps it is the utter guilelessness of his manner. Perhaps it is how welcome he makes you feel, in a way no one ever has before. You haven’t heard such a friendly voice in years, but it is at this moment that you realise just how much you missed such amiability.

Out of thin air, wisps and tendrils of softly glowing energy curl and twist to form tightly coiled seed-like orbs of mana that shimmer with a pearlescent hue. The orbs move to surround Flowey, each one spinning rapidly on its own axis.

"Down here," Flowey explains, "LOVE is shared by..." He motions at his surroundings, his voice trailing off as though he is searching for just the right words for what he wants to express. "...Little white... _friendliness pellets_." You notice a devious emphasis on the last two words, and you can swear a mischievous grin flashes briefly across his face before he brightens up again; he brims with so much exuberance that his stem nearly falls out of the ground. "Move around!" he exhorts you. "Catch as many as you can!" 

Before you can even process what's happening, the _friendliness pellets_ are zooming towards you.

In the furthest corners of your mind, parts of your consciousness arise in protest, urging caution at your wholehearted trust, but you choke them down like bitter bile down your throat. You're so taken in by Flowey that it feels almost like a crime to even doubt him of harbouring questionable intentions. If they really did not have your best interests at heart, would they be able to put up such a pleasant façade? You don’t want to believe that such a friendly creature can do you any harm.

Tentatively, you reach out to the pellets with an outstretched hand. You feel the radiant warmth of the pellet brush against your palm—

The world seems to writhe in the sudden grip of a violent agony, the very ground seems to crumble underneath your feet. You tumble to the ground in a heap, your lungs thrashing in the clutches of a relentless fit of coughing as they strain to get back the air that has been completely crushed out of them. But each breath feels like white-hot knives twisting in your lungs, and you toss about in unrest, trying desperately to find a position in which everything hurts less. You're not really sure what just happened, but vaguely, you can remember the sensation of those pellets slamming into your palm, your chest. You raise your hand to your line of sight. It is raw and reddened, swelling speedily, even as you look at it. From somewhere high above you, you can hear a wheezing laughter, a laughter that sounds as breathless as you feel; but, as you now begin to realise, this laughter is breathless for all the wrong reasons. As your consciousness hovers on the edge of oblivion, you think that this must be how death comes for you.

"You _idiot_ ," a voice sneers; a horribly unfamiliarly twisted version of the voice that had been so friendly just moments ago. With what little strength you have left, despite how unbearably woozy the world is about you, you feebly prop yourself up on your elbows, and raise your head to the slightest degree possible, to stare up at Flowey as though seeing him through new eyes.

The flower seems to be metamorphosing entirely, transforming into something that is completely different from its previous innocuous manner, and unquestionably menacing. His face is shifting and flowing, in some disturbing and overblown imitation of the putty you’ve so often played with, that used to meld beneath the slightest pressure of your fingers; until his personable expression has transfigured itself into a nightmarish one. Hollow eye sockets emerge where his beady black eyes used to be, a pinprick of light in each one being all that can be seen in the yawning emptiness within. His toothy grin is now entirely gone, replaced instead by a gloopy, gaping mouth, which seems to be sagging in upon itself even as you look on. Even his voice is entirely altered. Where before it cloyed, sickeningly sweet in its every inflection, practically dripping with an affected affability, striving in each syllable to possess an innocence it had never really had; now, it has dropped by an octave, to a voice as uncanny as the wailing of a storm’s eye, one that grates on the ears, that drips with malice.

“In this world,” hisses the flower, “it’s kill or _BE_ killed.” A perverse leer contorts his face into an even more unhinged version of itself. Barks of raucous laughter shake his frame so forcefully that tears threaten to spill out of his eyes. "Why would ANYONE pass up an opportunity like this!?"

Like a snake arising from the shredded remains of its old redundant skin, as though newly reborn, the flower seems to finally have come into its own, having shed the excessively saccharine exterior to bare the rotten core underneath in all its naked glory, transformed into a creature that is truly fit to be called—you realise with a jolt— a _monster_. The word rises almost effortlessly to your lips, bringing back with it the unpleasant weight of dread, which coils in the depths of your abdomen like the sly stirrings of a serpent. The last rational vestiges of your consciousness cannot stop berating you for so unwittingly giving him the benefit of the doubt, when all these years that you fought to survive should have taught you to do anything but.

Your frantically devolving train of thought is reeled back to reality by a series of sharp pops that punctuate the silent air. An entire circle of Flowey's bullets have sprung into existence, hemming you entirely into their circumference.

" _Die_."

He spits the word from his mouth in a vicious snarl.

The bullets begin to close in on you, poised to strike, point-blank, at your SOUL. Your gaze snaps around as you look desperately for an out, somewhere, anywhere, but there is none to be seen; your fate seems inescapable. Your heart flings itself against your ribs with an increasing fretfulness.

So this is how you will die. Landing by freak accident where you were never meant to be, trapped by a cruel trick of fate in this inescapable prison, and now, before you’d even found your bearings, fated to die at the hands of these vile creatures, having fallen victim to their deceit; perhaps not even the first of goodness knew how many casualties this hell beneath the earth had seen.

You should never have climbed that mountain.

In the background, you can hear Flowey falling all over himself in the spasms of his uncontrollable cackling. You are not a vengeful person, you never have been, but somehow, you are seized by an overwhelming urge to hurl abuse at the wretched creature until the fury that’s fueling your heart on overdrive is satiated, to scream at him until your throat rips, and you’re almost frightened by your own rage, for it’s a feeling that’s alien to you, almost as if it were _not your own_. But you've no breath left to cry foul, to do anything at all. The bullets converge closer and closer, until there is nowhere else to turn—

You find yourself curled up on the ground as though by instinct, arms and legs folded into each other in a last-ditch effort to shield yourself. You uncross your arms from in front of your face and sneak a hesitant peek. The “friendliness pellets” (hah!) are nowhere to be seen, but somehow, you feel surprisingly unhurt. Even the aches and pains that lingered about your body from when you fell have vanished entirely. Empowered by the newfound strength that surges through your limbs, you scramble up to hands and knees as fast as you can.

Even as you struggle to comprehend that you just survived what seemed like your certain end, let alone _why_ , your glance falls upon Flowey, who looks like an actual flower again. His previously deranged countenance has been completely overtaken by an open-mouthed, wide-eyed shock, confirming that he is just as in the dark as you are about what just happened. For a moment, the whole world seems to hold its breath.

From beyond the exit across the room emerges a ball of coiling tongues of fire, casting a powerful luminescence upon the walls that belies its unassuming size. It whizzes closer and closer, launching itself into the back of Flowey’s head and flinging him right past you, knocked right off his roots. The last thing you hear of him is a short squeal of fear as he flies out of the room altogether. Somehow, at this, a sort of satisfaction bubbles up within you, and again, that troubles you.

So you focus on the rhythm of the rise and fall of your chest, and you try to quell the anger that’s rearing within you, almost as if it were an entity all its own, threatening to consume you and all that it can get its fiery jaws upon. You coax yourself up to your feet, handling yourself as frailly as you feel; as though your shattered nerves have only just been pieced precariously together with glue, as though at any moment you might just fall apart. As your consciousness comes to terms with the magnitude of what you just endured, an uncontrollable tremor is overpowering every part of your body as it comes down from the surge of adrenaline that had earlier propelled you up to your knees and allowed you to stare Flowey in the eye. You look wildly around, searching for your saviour, hoping against hope for some ally, someone who might stay by your side in this desolate and unforgiving world.

From the shadows that cloak the entrance of the doorway opposite to you arises the outline of an enormous being; towering so high above you, in fact, that even if you were standing at your straightest, you would only just reach up to its waist. You’ve always been called small, for your age, but this is just ridiculous. And as your gaze falls upon the approaching creature, your knees begin to feel definitely and dangerously jelly-like again, and they can’t help but give out. Creeping up on you is the unpleasant suspicion that you might just have fallen out of the frying pan into the fire. Was what just went down only the result of a bigger monster tussling for dominance?

But when the creature emerges entirely into your field of vision, and for the first time, you don’t just look, but _see_ , your breath catches in your throat, and the beginnings of tears sting your eyes; before you shake yourself out of this inexplicable moment of weakness, hastily wiping your eyes off with the back of your sleeve. But you cannot forget the sharp tug at your heart that their sight evoked, the pang of familiarity that gnawed at your soul, as though you’ve known this being in some past life; perhaps, even loved it. You try your hardest to shrug off the remnants of your reverie, willing yourself to not dwell on such inconsequential sensations when you most need your wits about you. You realise that you’d dropped your stick during the encounter with Flowey, and you reach shakily for it.

But, somehow, ever since Flowey called to your SOUL, you’ve become exceedingly and unavoidably aware of that presence that thrives somewhere within the deepest and most unfathomable depths of you, always there but just out of reach; resonating with every inhale and exhale of your lungs, attuning to even the most sensitive shifts of your psyche. And when your gaze fell on the creature, all at once, you felt the raging undercurrents of anger that had been simmering, just beneath your skin, quiet down to a disoriented murmur. And you know, _you know_ , although you don’t know how, that there is not only your SOUL deep down there, but also someone else. Someone who is now tumbling over their own thoughts, backtracking in a whirlwind of confusion, but their thoughts are your thoughts and their confusion is your confusion and the pain that’s suddenly eating away at them is eating away at you, too. And so, despite all of the instincts that have been hard-wired into you over the years screaming at you not to trust this newest interloper, to remain firmly on guard, this tiny, _other_ , part of you (for they are part of you and you are part of them, and you’re tangled up in each other’s thoughts, undeniably so) makes you want to trust the newcomer, to give them a chance.

And as it speaks, this is what stays your hand, makes you refrain from slamming your makeshift weapon into it as hard as you can and making a dash for it, as much as you want to.

Its form is distinctly humanoid. An elegant purple robe, complete with flowing white sleeves that fall past its wrists, is draped about its massive girth. However, its head is the puzzling thing. It can best be described as an odd cross between that of a human and what can only be called a goat. Despite the subtle resemblance of the expression that graces its features to that of a human’s, particularly around the eyes, the presence of a rounded snout where a nose should have been, and the long, drooping ears that frame its face, mark it as the face of a creature the likes of which you have never quite seen. Where you would expect to see skin, there is only a coat of downy white fur. It speaks, and its voice makes the very air thrum with the power of its presence.

"What a terrible creature, torturing such a poor, innocent youth...”

Its voice is that of a female, and quite different from what you had expected. Even though her voice reverberates mightily amidst the gloom, as you would expect from a being of this stature, her tone is warm and lilting, and awakens a part of you that you thought had fallen asleep forever; that part of you that used, for so long, to yearn for the warmth of a heartfelt embrace....

But you cannot shake the lingering dread from your bones and as her gaze falls upon you, kneeling at her feet, she notices how an irrepressible series of shivers still rocks your body like a leaf in the wind. And she stoops, so that her eyes meet yours, concern written all over her face, and reaches out to your cheek with a furred, clawed and yet strangely humanoid hand, before deciding better of it. But strangely enough, you know you wouldn’t have recoiled from her touch, but would have leaned into it, just the slightest bit, because there seemed nothing more natural in the world, much as the thought catches you off guard.

“Ah, do not be afraid, my child,” she intones, in a voice so soothing you feel as though it could rock you to sleep if your nerves were not on fire. “I’m _Toriel_ , caretaker of the Ruins.” The word means nothing to you, and as though sensing the confusion in your eyes, she sweeps her arm in a wide arc, indicating the general surroundings. But you’re still confused. Don’t ruins mean broken places? Why would anyone need to take care of broken places? All the same, despite her matronly manner, her seeming kindliness, there is a majesty to the way she carries herself that makes you wary of her approach, that reminds you that despite everything, _you_ are yet just an interloper upon her domain.

Now that she is closer to you, you start to notice the finer details of her appearance. A pair of short horns is set between her ears, and you can make out the glimpse of fangs gleaming in her mouth. Her bare feet are more like paws than anything else, and seem to make no sound as they tread lightly upon the ground. And upon the robe she wears is emblazoned a strange symbol you cannot recognise. And her eyes— they peek out of a border of long eyelashes, fluttering with the play of countless subtle emotions, concern and affection but also, an old, old sorrow that is betrayed by the deep crinkles that line her eyes. Her irises are suffused with the gentle gleam of rubies, with the welcoming warmth of flames dancing in a fireplace. Gazing into them, your entire being aches with a longing for _home_ , somewhere that is always welcome to you, even though it has been so long since you were ever really home. But this time, the longing is so compelling that your mind’s eye conjures up visions that feel more like memories, of nights spent by the warmth of the fireplace, of tummies contentedly full with homemade pie, of eyes slowly fluttering shut to the rhythm of that same lilting voice narrating bedtime stories, of letting yourself be lost in the clasp of arms so reassuring in their sturdiness that you’re sure they will never let go.

"I pass through this place every day to see if anyone has fallen down. You are the first human to come down here in a long time." She pauses as she straightens up to her full height, and you marvel at the shadow of the matriarch that falls upon her, a regality in her posture that suggested that she’d once been used to having people at her beck and call. But she is only a lady who seems to have seen far too many years pass, an old woman with ancient eyes and a subdued manner, and this seeming contradiction is what puzzles you most.

"Come! I will guide you through the catacombs.” She gestures for you to follow her. “This way." She turns, and disappears back into the shadows, exiting the room the way she came, leaving only a gentle silence in her wake, a silence that descends like the dying ripples on an otherwise untouched expanse of tranquil water.

For what seems like several moments, you hang back, uncertain, trying to steady the wobble of your legs as you force yourself back to your feet. You’ve been gripping at your trusty stick for so long and so hard that it’s left indentations, crusted in mud, on the skin of your palm, and only now, as your fingers slowly pry themselves loose, do you realise this. Almost absentmindedly, your fingers trace the pattern of folds and ridges carved into its soothingly prickly bark, the increasing familiarity of its feel the only thing that keeps you sane in a topsy turvy world.

Your heart yearns to give yourself entirely into the trust of the kindly Toriel, but still you distrust the overwhelming desire of that small, aching part inside you that craves for her affection; perhaps, any affection at all. You’ve only just barely escaped the machinations of Flowey, after all, and you so easily fell for his veneer of friendly charm. And you remind yourself of where exactly you’ve found yourself, this stronghold of forbidding legend, and you’ve to hold on to your wits harder than you’ve ever had to in your entire life.

You look behind you at the way you came, only to be greeted by an impenetrable hush; you sense the hint of a presence that makes your skin crawl, that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You realise that you have nothing to lose; there really is no way but forward. And so you turn, and follow the strange goat-woman into the shadows.

 

 

 

 

And perhaps it is lucky you didn’t linger any longer, for otherwise you would have seen an unwelcomely familiar silhouette emerge from where it had been temporarily banished, seen its charred parts turn to tender yellow again as though it were nothing. A chill would have travelled down your spine as you heard the reedy voice that hissed from the shadows.

“Hee hee hee.

Don’t worry, little buddy.

You haven’t seen the last of me.

And I’m sure we’re going to be the best of friends!”

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The human is not alone, in more ways than one.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Intro dialogue by Toby Fox, as are the obvious parts.  
> General thoughts?


End file.
